


Button Up Your Overcoat

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Fanservice, Flappers, I'm probably the only fan this is servicing, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Songfic, Speakeasies, but I'm cool with that, tagging 2ps really sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Allan visits a speakeasy for a little pick-me-up and gets exactly that from a chubby English Omega.[USUK from afar.]





	Button Up Your Overcoat

**Author's Note:**

> I made my notes for this one-shot four months ago. And look at this! Here it is. I dunno about you, but I call that a success. Better late than never, amiright?
> 
> If you know me, you know (maybe :P) that I love overcoats. Actually, I have an unhealthy attraction to overcoats. If I see you in one, I might screech and run toward you. (I'm the opposite of a bear, by the way; turn and run, because you most certainly can outrun me.) And don't even get me started on frock coats, bloody hell. But! England in an overcoat? The holy binding of my two loves? Crack cocaine, I tell you!
> 
> So that's why this is here xD Cheers.

It’s half ten, and the speakeasy’s full to the brim with Alphas, all of them chomping on cigars and wearing their derbies and bowlers at rakish angles. They laugh and taunt and snarl, iced drinks jangling and yellowed teeth flashing. They’re shiny in pinstripe and beeswax, but their thoughts are as filthy as the floor and lower than the gutter outside. In a society that condemns alcohol, jazz, sex—in other words, all the things they live for—they are bound tight, tight, tight.

Tonight, they will loosen their collars.

Standing against the wall, Allan crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not here to talk, so he doesn’t. Some men glance at him every now and then, and he bares his fangs at them because he knows they’re seeing how much darker his skin is than theirs. He flicks the ash off his cigarette. The carpet doesn’t go up in flames, despite all the whiskey that’s been spilled onto it in the past week. This place—water spots on the ceiling, cracks in the plaster, chipped vermeil exposing the ugly wrought iron beneath—could not be more shabby if it tried. Still, it’s better than Allan’s cramped bachelor flat, which he would be happy to never see again.

Movement behind the stained curtain. Then, at last, the lights dim and the stage is revealed. The band is in the shadows, but no one cares if the pianist can see his scales or not, because the main attraction is now walking out into the odiferous spotlight.

The flapper is an Omega, of course; you have to go to a big city to find an Alpha willing to wear kitten heels. His strawberry hair is shorn but curled, and his chipmunk cheeks have every Alpha in the room sitting up straighter. Allan can’t help but join them in imagining what the Omega’s body looks like underneath that bulky overcoat. The Omega waves shyly at his audience, and the Alphas take the opportunity to call out:  _ Take off the coat, freckles! Let’s see what you’re hiding! Come sit on Daddy’s lap, sugar! _

Allan grimaces, but the Omega—Ollie, or so the program advert said—doesn’t seem bothered. He waits patiently for the audience to quiet themselves, then says in a squeaky sweet voice, “Hello there. I’ve got me a song, would you like to hear it?”

This draws another round of flirty crowing, and it only stops when the instruments kick in. The tune is jaunty but just innocent enough to make the Alphas restless, and Allan knows right then that this is about to be three minutes of gorgeous torture. And believe this, if you thought Ollie’s speaking voice is squeaky, you haven’t heard him sing.

_ Listen, big boy, now that you got me made _

_ Goodness! but I’m afraid _

_ Something’s gonna happen to you _

He pouts, arms hugged around himself and head tipped to one side as he croons.

_ Listen, big boy, you got me hooked and how _

_ I would die if I would lose you now _

His stubby fingers go to the buttons of his coat, popping them from top to bottom.

_ Button up your overcoat _

_ When the wind is free _

He slips a leg out, revealing pale, freckled skin. The Alphas are grinning now, but Ollie’s face stays pure in its loving concern.

_ Take good care of yourself _

_ You belong to me! _

The coat falls backward, caught on his elbows, revealing a white bodice that strains to accommodate the creamy flesh poured into it and frilled white skirt that flows down no farther than the middle of his thighs. The Alphas shove their fingers into their mouths, whistling like the slavering wolves they are.

_ Eat an apple every day _

Ollie produces a wax fruit from his pocket and pretends to take a bite, then tosses it into the crowd. It’s caught, but it doesn’t carry enough of his delectable Omega scent to be fought over.

_ Get to bed by three _

Ollie mimes sleeping, hands folded beneath his cheek. Allan is shocked by the intense feeling rising in his body when he sees the delicate curls of Ollie’s eyelashes on his cheek. He wants to mount this curvaceous Omega just as much as the other animals in here, but he also wants to just hold him, to touch that soft skin, to kiss the vanilla curls on his head. God, what did he drink?

_ Take good care of yourself _

_ You belong to me! _

_ Be careful crossing streets, ooh-ooh! _

Now Ollie sashays across the stage, hands lifted at his sides and swaying with his hips.

_ Cut out sweets, ooh-ooh! _

He licks his fingers as if they’re dripping with sugary icing, or perhaps something on the saltier side if the spreading legs of the Alphas are any indication.

_ Lay off meat, ooh-ooh! _

Hands on his thighs so there’s no confusion what meat he means.

_ You’ll get a pain and ruin your tum-tum! _

He strokes his belly through the silk, and Allan wonders if he truly loves himself like this or if those doe eyes are just part of the performance, the fertile maiden with good intentions to be taken advantage of by the canny lech.

_ Wear your flannel underwear _

He bends down, arching his back to give everyone a view of just how many freckles he has.

_ When you climb a tree _

He straightens up, wrapping his arms around an invisible trunk.

_ Oh, take good care of yourself _

Back tips his head, spine arched. Every Alpha’s gaze is fixated on him, imagining themselves to be this luscious wood.

_ You belong to me! _

He whirls to face the audience, enraptured. His pink cheeks have the crowd shifting in their seats, soft growls rumbling in some throats, others groaning quietly as they imagine freckled cream heated to rosy red in a heat nest.

_ Button up your overcoat _

He buttons the middle of his coat, and the few protests of covering skin are silenced by possessive glares from other audience members. Allan shakes his head. When they’re all this desperate for a mate—and every Omega you find is either waiting for marriage or avoiding true claiming so they can go to petting parties—it doesn’t take much for them to instinctively protect an Omega.

_ When the wind is free _

Ollie hugs himself, wrapping the overcoat tight as if against the cold.

_ Oh, take good care of yourself _

He wags a finger at the crowd, pouting sternly at them. A growl from a kitten.

_ You belong to me! Boop-boop-a-doop! _

He bounces joyfully back and forth, then prances across the stage, growing sassier—though never broaching the line of intentionally sexy, always bumbling into his sensual poses and relying on the eagerly erotic thoughts of his viewers—as the song plinks and plonks along. He shakes his hips along with the trumpet, smiling directly at Allan, whose heart actually shivers a little when he sees the little crooked tooth in his mouth. What is he, an infatuated pup? Ridiculous.

Ollie hops inelegantly back to the middle of the stage, sipping from an invisible cup with his pinkie raised.

_ Keep the spoon out of your cup _

_ When you’re drinking tea _

He twines his fingers together, holding his hands out to the crowd and begging, pleading.

_ Oh, take good care of yourself _

He curls in on himself, skin once again hidden by the overcoat, chin ducked down into his tweed collar. He lifts his gaze, looking up at them all with shy, beautifully sad blue eyes that sweep over the randy, rubbing crowd before finally landing on Allan, the only one who still sees Ollie for what he is instead of an unattainable, faceless fantasy. Ollie gives one last, bittersweet smile.

_ You belong to me. _

Then the piano plays its last notes, the spotlight goes out, and the curtain slides across the stage once again. The lights come back on overhead, lighting up the smoke and anger of rutting Alphas. They can’t bare themselves in public; most of them rise, headed for the washroom or the back alley to relieve the pressure they’ve built up. Others hurl curses and grab sleeves; fighting is the next best carnal expression, after all, if mating isn’t an option. Only Allan walks out calmly, if a bit stiff since his trousers are tighter than he’d like now (he is an Alpha, after all).

He steps out into the damp street and, instead of turning right to head to his tenement, he turns left. There’s plenty of shops this way, and more than one that sells Alpha clothing. The money in his pocket was meant to be for rent, but that’s beside the point now.

He needs to buy an overcoat.

  
  
  


_ The End. _

**Author's Note:**

> https://youtu.be/Rclfkeyy1bg  
> Go have a listen, you know you want to :D


End file.
